


and all i need for my survival is what you say

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [13]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M, clint barton: the maple kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton sometimes worries that he’ll come to take Coulson for granted, the way that most of SHIELD takes Coulson for granted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and all i need for my survival is what you say

Barton’s not a pessimist but there is something of the disbeliever in him. It is not a shortage of self-belief; Barton’s a cocky bastard but he’s arrogant with good reason. If Barton had only to rely on himself, his confidence would be an anchor and a bunker all at once. Periscopes down; he’d emerge to fight another day.

 

Since joining SHIELD, however, he has undergone a gentle, inexorable decline. Stark says Barton’s whipped. Like Stark has any room to talk; like Pepper and Rhodey and Steve don’t have some sort of tag-team going on to keep Stark bearable. Clint Barton has a Coulson and though he’s never going to be sure how that happened, Stark’s argument is invalid, genius or not.

 

In the beginning, Phil Coulson seemed like a gentle sort, though never meek. He’s always been one for eye contact and Barton has always been one to appreciate that. It’s not that he believes that eyes are the windows to the soul, or any of that bullshit (they are a bulls-eye, two little targets, and they are a weakness and they are his strength) but he cannot remember when meeting Coulson’s gaze was anything other than some sort of flame, licking at the blue touch paper. Maybe it’s always been incendiary. Maybe it’s always like this.

 

In the beginning, when Coulson was a distant man in a nice suit and Barton didn’t know about the flecks of gold in his irises, he still knew Coulson’s voice, distorted and staticky and _talk to me_. At the start and at the end of a mission, Barton learned to listen. He may be all about visuals but he has learned to listen. He learned to interpret the tone of Coulson’s voice and sharp means business, and soft and rounded means tired, and breathless means Coulson’s been doing something heroic behind the scenes.

 

Barton sometimes worries that he’ll come to take Coulson for granted, the way that most of SHIELD takes Coulson for granted.

 

He rests his head on Coulson’s shoulder and Coulson’s arm is draped oh so casually across the back of the couch, like a teenaged boy on his first date, with a yawn and a stretch and here is our practiced-but-unstudied intimacy. There is a brief battle for supremacy for the coffee table and Barton would never have thought that Coulson would put his feet on the furniture and now their legs are tangled and that’s probably better.

 

Coulson’s trying to explain the finer details of rugby to him but Barton’s eyes are drifting closed because Coulson is so close and his shirt, rumpled after a long day, rubs just right against Barton’s cheek. Sometimes, Coulson gestures at the screen and mutters about referees and mauls and Barton can feel him move. He just pats Coulson’s stomach soothingly and then he can feel Coulson’s abdominal muscles clench beneath his touch and that is absolutely worth exploring but Barton is sleepy and comfortable and a whole night stretches out ahead of them and tomorrow is Saturday and they can live in hope that it will be undisturbed and glorious. The weekend is meant to be Barton’s time and Coulson’s time and, even though Coulson’s phone will ring before 9am, sometimes he delegates and drops his phone off the edge of the bed and curls back into Barton’s arms.

 

Barton figures that he’ll never take Coulson for granted because of these Saturday mornings when Coulson says no to Nick Fury but everyone knows that Coulson will be at HQ by noon, anyway. They can pretend, though; they can pretend to be five-days-a-week, nine-to-five men and they can pretend that there won't be another call when they sit down to breakfast in the diner down the street. They can pretend that a car won’t pull up outside or that Tony won’t show up in his suit or that Steve won’t apologetically put out the call to assemble.

 

As they walk into the diner, Coulson’s hand rests briefly at the base of Barton’s spine, and Barton's world is shivers and smiles.

 

Barton laughs when Coulson raises an eyebrow at just how much maple syrup he pours on his breakfast and when Barton spills some on his knuckles, he knows how much Coulson wants to lick it off and Barton’s foot rests on top of Coulson’s and maybe they’ll make it past noon today, just the two of them, and their waitress and their half-finished, half-full mugs of coffee.

 

Their eyes meet and it is incendiary and Barton’s a little breathless, like Coulson’s been doing something heroic behind the scenes.

**Author's Note:**

> +Title from The Frames' _Hollocaine_  
>  +Written for Bingo Prompt "Down Time Together".  
> +Written, too, for the Feels. Love you guys.


End file.
